


Symptomatic

by CorpusInvictus



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alien Biology, M/M, sick vulcans are gross
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-10
Updated: 2013-03-10
Packaged: 2017-12-04 22:01:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/715576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CorpusInvictus/pseuds/CorpusInvictus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the Star Trek XI Kink Meme prompts deal with a pathetically sick, freezing Spock and Kirk taking care of him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Symptomatic

"No."

"Doctor, I am not significantly inhibited by this virus, nor am I contagious. Despite my appearance I assure you I am entirely capable of reporting to the bridge for my shift."

"Absolutely not."

"Your protests are most illogical."

McCoy resists the urge to retort, 'Yeah, well your _face_ is illogical.' But just barely. It's almost too good a comeback to pass up, seeing as Spock's face really is a big illogical mess right now, all snotty and puffy and a faint sickly yellowish green color, but even he has his limits as far as needling Spock goes.

Also? He is not a big fan of asphyxiation.

"They aren't. You're sick and your body could use the rest."

"Vulcans do not require the same amount of sleep-"

"You're _half_ Vulcan and I didn't say sleep, I said rest. Clearly you need it if those pointy ears of yours are so clogged up that you failed to hear that."

Spock blinks at him then, somewhat hazily, and the movement dislodges the inner membrane of his eyelids. It's thinner than those on a common housecat, more translucent and pale. But it's also _fucking weird_ just hanging there halfway over his eyes, and McCoy tries hard not to squirm at the sight of it. "Doctor-" Spock tries to argue again.

"Chief Medical Officer," he reminds him shortly, trying to look at any part of his face but his eyes. "I'm allowed to order you around when it's for your own good. Go back to your quarters and sleep it off - or rest it off," he corrects himself when Spock opens his mouth to protest, "for at least the next alpha shift and possibly two of them." _Depending on how badly you're creeping out your coworkers by tomorrow._

Spock must be feeling worse than he lets on, because instead of arguing the matter for another half hour he accepts it with a resigned sigh, rising from the biobed and making his way slowly out of Sick Bay.

McCoy makes a note to himself to recommend Chapel for a raise: she waits until the doors seal closed behind the First Officer before she makes a horrified gurgling noise.

*******

When alpha shift goes off-duty for the day, McCoy takes it upon himself to walk his best friend back to his room. "Seriously, Jim. You don't want to go in there."

"Maybe you haven't been paying attention for the past three years, but we kind of share quarters now. If I wanna sleep, I have to go in there."

McCoy makes that same mock-disgusted noise he always does if Jim mentions anything even vaguely associated with his relationship with Spock. It's all show and they both know it. "Have you seen him sick before?"

Jim rolls his eyes. "Bones, I've seen you in just about every stage between 'just a cold' and 'day three of horrific gut-spewing hangover.' I can handle Spock with the sniffles."

"When did I ever have a three day hangover?" McCoy shoots back, temporarily distracted from his main point.

"That year Jocelyn screwed you over at Christmas when she took Joanna up to New York. Second year at the Academy, maybe?"

He snarls. It wasn't one of his better Christmases. "Well I'm not a Vulcan," he continues. "Vulcans don't get gut-spewing hangovers as far as I know-"

"They don't," Jim informs him, his smile taking on a smug, predatory bent that McCoy valiantly tries to ignore.

"I'm not asking why you know that. Bad enough seeing him pawing you in the Mess," he grumps. "Anyhow, Vulcans turn into B-movie monster villains when they're sick. He's only on mandatory medical leave because he'll creep everyone out if you let him on the bridge."

Jim rolls his eyes again. "You think he's creepy on a normal basis, if all your bitching about his ears is anything to go by."

"I'm getting used to the ears. It's the ... other stuff that's weirding me out now. And you'll never get a wink of shuteye if you look at him, so I'd be happy to clear out a biobed in a private room down in Sick Bay-"

"Won't be necessary," Jim interrupts him, stopping in front of his shared quarters. "Seriously, I'm a starship captain. I've seen a lot of weird things during this mission. Spock with a cold isn't going to bother me."

McCoy shrugs, waving him off. "Suit yourself. Don't comm Sick Bay whining about nightmares later."

"As if I ever comm you about something that lame."

"There was the time you had an allergic reaction to your bed."

"For the last time, it wasn't the damn bed. It was the new soap Starfleet issued for the sheets."

"According to your official medical file-"

"Good night, Bones," Jim interrupts him again, tapping in the privacy code and hurrying inside before McCoy can get the last word in.

The first thing he notices is the stifling heat. They keep the temperature in their quarters several degrees above that of the rest of the ship in deference to Spock's Vulcan makeup, but it feels as if Jim has stepped into an oven. He peels off his command tunic, leaving himself in the sleeveless black undershirt as he approaches Spock.

Spock, for his part, is still almost fully clothed in his uniform missing only his boots. He's curled up in the middle of the bed, making a sound dangerously close to sniffling, and...

"Spock? Are you _shaking_?" Jim asks, sitting on one side of the bed and speaking more or less to Spock's spine.

More sniffling, but it sounds almost derisive now, kind of snooty even. "I suspect the temperature controls are malfunctioning. It is significantly colder in here than it was a few hours ago."

"A few?" That's weird all by itself, that Spock is settling on vague terms like that rather than giving him an exact number of hours and three decimal spaces describing how long it's been cold in here. Which, you know, _it isn't_.

"I am unsure of the time and therefore cannot give you an accurate count of hours," Spock mumbles, and it's then that Jim realizes he's got his head half-buried in a pillow, eyes squeezed shut and looking utterly miserable. If this is Bones's idea of a B-movie monster villain, clearly he's going to have to show him some of the more extreme examples. This is just a miserable Vulcan.

"Alpha shift just went off duty," he informs him, stroking his fingers over one green-flushed pointed ear. "And according to the temperature control, it's approaching thirty degrees in here."

"Fahrenheit?" Spock mumbles.

"Celsius. You know the ship's controls are metric," he points out, combing his fingers through Spock's hair.

"Indeed," he says vaguely, squirming a bit.

"If you're so cold, how come you didn't get under the blankets?"

More squirming, and Jim pulls his hand back while Spock turns himself over. It's a slow process, Spock making a face that's somewhat pained. "I found once I was lying down that I was disinclined to move unless absolutely necessary." He rubs at his eyes, blinking them open.

Jim gets Bones's B-movie reference then, trying hard not to balk at the distended membrane half-covering one of Spock's eyes. One is the same familiar clear dark brown, but the other... He's sure he's making a face but he can't help it. "What the hell is that?"

"Hmm?" His usual eloquence gone, Spock rubs a hand over his face blearily and looks up at Jim again. Now both membranes are distended over his eyes, though one is just barely peeking out from the eyelid and the other almost completely covers his eye.

"That." He gestures vaguely towards Spock's face. "Did Bones check your eyes? Because they look terrible."

Despite his bleariness and general misery, he still manages an expression reminiscent of a glare. "You are, of course, aware of the differences between human and Vulcan physiology?"

"That's your second eyelid?"

"What else could it possibly be?"

"Well it's not clear, for one. How do you see through it?"

"A Vulcan's eyesight is somewhat sharper than that of a human's and the membrane interferes little with our vision. I can see through it perfectly well."

"And it doesn't feel weird just hanging there like that?" Jim tries to keep the mild revulsion out of his voice. He loves most of the things that are different about Spock, but this one is just plain eerie.

"It is simply another symptom of being ill. It will function properly when the virus is out of my system."

It's a sidestepping of the question and Jim realizes he's offended the poor man, adding insult to injury when he already feels terrible. He presses a kiss to his forehead, trying not to focus on his eyes overmuch. "You want something to eat?"

"I do not." It's petulant, childish. But he leans into the kiss, so apparently Jim's still got a chance to make up for offending him.

"Fair enough." He rises from their bed and heads for the control panel over the laundry chute. A few button-presses later he has an armful of Starfleet-issue black fleece blankets, fresh out of the dryer and still hot. He helps Spock out of his uniform with minimal protest, pulling the sheets out from under him and covering him up.

The sound Spock emits when Jim unfolds the still-warm blanket and tucks it around his shoulders, tight around his waist, and pulled up along the back of his neck until it covers his ears, is not quite a purr. But it's close enough, and Jim grins and presses a kiss against his temple. "Need anything else?"

A mumble, the contented slur of his voice muffled by the blanket.

Jim can't help the ridiculous smile that breaks over his face, smoothing a hand over one of Spock's overheated cheeks and pushing the blanket down enough to hear him properly. "What?"

Bleary bloodshot eyes open to take him in, the strange second eyelids still distended over those dark eyes. But he's getting more used to it now and he doesn't balk the way he did a moment ago. "I said I would not be averse to company."

Jim chuckles, removing the rest of his uniform. "You know, most people just say, 'Come to bed.'"

"I am not most people." It would sound almost uppity if not for that borderline-purr still coloring his voice.

"No. You're not." And there's nothing but affection in his voice when he says it, crawling into bed and grimacing only a little bit when he gets under the covers. There's a definite possibility he'll die of heat stroke somewhere between the ungodly temperature in the room, the dryer-fresh blanket, and the blistering heat Spock's body gives off on a normal basis, only made worse by his illness. But Spock never asks him for anything and he can't turn him down when he looks so pitiful. He spoons himself around him, shifting his body so it hugs the slight curve of Spock's spine, legs pressed up against the back of Spock's thighs, his face nuzzled into a small bit of bare skin at his neck. That elicits another of Spock's almost-purrs and Jim can't help hiding a grin against his shoulder.

He's sweaty and flushed and gross and again, somewhat concerned by the odds of developing heat sickness and throwing up all over his bedmate at some point during the night. But it's worth it for the sense of contentment seeping into the bond they share, for the almost electric surge of feeling Jim gets from him everywhere their skin is touching. He burrows one hand underneath the covers, underneath the much heavier body in front of him, until one hand is resting over the low vibration just under Spock's ribs, still fascinated after all this time by the inhuman speed of his pulse. He still remembers with a sense of mild humiliation his reaction to it after the first time they'd had sex, worried that he'd caused some kind of cardiac arrest in his First Officer ("You flatter yourself," Spock had informed him dryly).

The other hand starts wandering, because Jim just can't help himself where Spock is concerned. He's a tactile person by nature and thankfully Spock has more or less adjusted to being molested on a constant basis. He digs his fingers into the beginnings of a knot in his shoulder, kissing the skin there when it eases. He slides his hands up and down Spock's arms, feeling out the lines of wiry muscle and unnatural strength. He wraps an arm around him and brushes a hand through the dense chest hair, tugging on it until Spock makes a small, incoherent sound of protest, smoothing a hand along his side and down his flank, content just to pet at the soft skin along Spock's thigh until he falls asleep.

Except Spock isn't falling asleep. They're cocooned together in a sweltering pile of blankets and body heat and by all rights, Spock should be dead to the world by now. Instead he's shifting back to plaster as much of his back as he can against Jim's chest, tilting his head back so Jim can kiss along his hairline, almost squirming at the fingers on his thigh. "You okay?" Jim murmurs against his ear. "Too warm?"

"I am ... fine," Spock decides on, voice muffled by the covers. The words don't seem to accurately describe his feelings, though, still squirming and twitching at all the contact.

_He couldn't be..._ Jim runs a hand experimentally down Spock's stomach, his grin turning decidedly predatory at the way his skin twitches under his hand. "Why Mister Spock," he chuckles into his hair, pressing a hand over his fully erect cock, "you must not be feeling so terrible after all."

Spock pushes his hips forward in a silent demand for more, squirming impossibly closer. "Jim," he mutters, and his voice still has that pathetic stuffy quality to it, "do not tease me."

And while Jim loves driving him crazy on a regular basis, he decides it's probably better for his own safety if he either stops entirely and lets Spock sleep, or...

He curls his fingers around the hot, hard length, rubbing his thumb along the side and groaning quietly when Spock thrusts his hips forward again. He worms his other arm out from under Spock's waist and moves it to cradle Spock's head instead, his fingers combing through the mussed black hair in a gentle counterpoint to the slow, even strokes of his hand on his cock. "No teasing," he promises, giving him an easy rhythm to ride.

Silence descends upon the room for long moments. Jim can't indulge his voyeuristic tendencies in this position, with Spock's head facing the opposite direction and his body covered by several layers of sheets and blankets. Instead he closes his eyes and pays attention to the sound of his breathing, to the sharp intakes when his fingers graze the head of his cock, the low humming in his chest when firms up his grip and picks up the pace just a little, the soft wheezing quality of his voice as Jim drives him closer and closer.

He spends long minutes just enjoying the rhythm of their bodies together, the little nonverbal cues he misses when he's caught up in watching Spock's eyes go dark and glittery or his regal expression start to crack. He presses his own half-hard cock up against his lower back, too involved in what he's doing to break their pace by getting out of bed and digging around for the lube. He starts a series of nibbling kisses along the back of Spock's neck, just mouthing mindlessly at his skin and enjoying the fine sheen of sweat there.

Spock's shoulders start to tighten up, the wheezing quality of his breathing devolving into a faint keening sound, feet scrabbling along the mattress for some kind of leverage into the steady strokes of Jim's hand. "Come on," Jim whispers into the soft skin behind a green-flushed ear. "Come on, t'hy'la, you're so close, I can feel it in every inch of you..."

The thrusting of Spock's hips turns arrhythmic, stuttering and jilted as the keening noise increases in volume, and with another few strokes he goes rigid and comes in long spurts over Jim's hand.

Jim strokes him through it, rubbing himself against the small of his back, his other hand still combing through Spock's hair as he eases back down from it. He lets go of Spock in order to wrap his sticky hand around himself instead, opening his mouth to spout another bit of obscene nonsense at him-

When Spock's body suddenly seizes up, his head twisting into the pillow (and consequently Jim's arm where it's been cradling his skull), and sneezes explosively.

Vulcan mucus, it turns out, is decidedly slimier, stickier, and overall more disgusting than the human kind.

Half laughing and half choking down disgusted noises, Jim extricates himself from the bed and heads for the adjoining bathroom, his erection flagging when he takes in the purple goo all over his forearm. After scrubbing off his hands and arms (laughing again at the faint purple spots that have already stained his skin), he takes a washcloth back to bed to clean up Spock.

Spock, for his part, has rolled to his other side and scooted into what Jim considers his own side of the bed. There won't be any moving him as he's managed to fall dead asleep in the few short minutes Jim's been gone to clean himself up. Which leaves him with Spock's side of the bed.

Which leaves him with, he discovers shortly thereafter, the wet spot.

He tosses the unused washcloth on the floor, grimacing as his thigh hits the cool stickiness on the sheet. "You are so lucky that I'm a hopelessly smitten bastard," Jim grumbles, even though Spock can't hear him.

His only answer is a decidedly un-Vulcan snore. "Lights," he mutters at the computer, resigning himself to a night of sticky, gross, overheated sleep.


End file.
